


in this moment

by wilhuffnpuff



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhuffnpuff/pseuds/wilhuffnpuff
Summary: Fashion designers Orson Krennic and Wilhuff Tarkin clash ( and come together ) over something unexpected...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the month of nanowrimo, I added a little extra bit to this fashion designer AU I wrote a while back. Originally posted on tumblr but now released to the public. Two-parter, short and sweet. The (nonexistent) masses collectively groan. But hey I enjoy this sort of thing!

Orson Krennic finds himself in Tarkin’s office yet again, hopelessly distracted.

It has been happening with unsettling frequency as of late.Intrusive, meddling thoughts surfacing at the most maddeningly inconvenient of times.Krennic focuses on the street below, watches pedestrians and tourists with shopping bags leisurely walk along Rue Francois underneath swaying trees that cast dappled shadows in the fading afternoon light.He listens to the soft shuffling of paper, braces himself for impact. 

“ _Really_ , Orson?”The voice drips with callous detachment. 

Krennic peers over his shoulder.Looks at the target of his intrusive thoughts, the man who is regrettably one of the most difficult individuals that he has ever known.

Wilhuff Tarkin sits at his desk, surrounded by piles of sketches.The desk is utilitarian but elegant, echoing the sensibilities of its owner.The CEO flips through Orson’s croquis drawings with a thin, dextrous hand.“You’ve gone overboard with the capes.Again.”

There is a silence, broken occasionally by the whispering shuffle of paper.Tarkin’s office, with its arched loft windows extending floor to ceiling, is reminiscent of a cathedral.A sacred, hallowed place desecrated by Krennic’s presence.Krennic can’t help but feel discombobulated.

“They’re trending.”Orson leans against the window, folds his arms.

“They aren’t.But that’s besides the point.This—“Wilhuff gestures towards the concepts spread out over his desk.“— _this_ isn’t what our customer responds to.They’re looking for an instant classic, something easy.A statement.Not this…extravagance.”

“They’re hardly _extravagant_ ,” Orson retorts, thinking that his superior should crack open a dictionary and reexamine the definition of the word.“We ought not shy away from experimentation.”

“No,” Wilhuff shakes his head, finally swiveling his chair around to face Orson.“What we ought not do is suffocate on our aspirations.”He presses thin lips together and the numerous lines on his face mold themselves into a familiar amalgamation of disapproval.Forever the default expression whenever he deigns to speak with Krennic.“We strive to be an aspirational brand—but the clothing still has to _sell_.Time and time again, you forget that seemingly minor detail.And your lack of cohesion with the brand has repeatedly caused delays with line production.Let’s not forget last year’s spring collection.” 

Orson’s eyes are blue embers, burning in the shadows cast by the setting sun.The hands hidden under his crossed arms tighten into fists, fingers digging harshly into the flesh of his palms.The previous year’s spring collection ( which Wilhuff has arrogantly taken all the credit for ) had been exceedingly well received.Orson had worked behind the scenes with the senior designers, orchestrating and pulling the vision together.And now, nearly a _year_ later, the insufferable bastard still reprimands him for the minor delay.He wonders, with a pang of bitterness, if Wilhuff has ever had this conversation with Motti, or Tagge, or Ozzel, or Pryce. _Their_ work, _their_ ideas are taken into consideration. _They_ don’t suffer the brick wall of Wilhuff’s derision and dismissal.

His gaze lingers on the Wilhuff, surveying the twin bony protuberances that erupt violently from the surface of what some might call a face.Orson searches his internal lexicon for the proper word. _Grim.Cadaverous.Ghoulish.Austere._ A face far more appropriate for a funeral director rather than the head of one of the most respected luxury fashion empires in existence. 

And yet.

There is _something_.He wants to touch the hollow underneath Wilhuff’s horrendously exquisite cheekbone, run hands over the lean frame accentuated by Wil’s black turtleneck sweater.Sweep a hand through Wil’s impeccable silver hair ( what’s left of it, anyway ).Conduct trysts in secret places, hurried fumbling in the dark.Withering stares, disparaging words and cruel, unflinching eyes.He wants all of it.

Krennic is troubled by the twinge of jealousy when he watches Wil interact charmingly with colleagues and the press, blending seamlessly into the upper echelons of the Parisian socialite scene.The little stab of envy when he occasionally spies Wilhuff at a party with a retired model on his arm, often at least two decades younger and possessing the same jarringly alienesque bone structure as the man himself.The sting of bitterness when Wil mysteriously forgets his manners in Orson’s presence. 

This spontaneous forgetting generally occurs when Orson places himself within Tarkin’s general vicinity and watches as the man’s social grace and carefully cultivated charm promptly evaporates.There is a special brand of aloof superiority that Tarkin reserves for Krennic alone.

Orson Krennic is consumed with furious determination.It is time to commence with his seduction, time to put his suspicions to the test.He wants it.Wilhuff wants it.This limbo that they occupy, this ongoing state of tension—Orson needs to smash it, crush it, kill it.Needs to prove to himself that he isn’t imagining it.

“You consistently take credit for _my achievements_.”The husky, decadent words slip from Orson’s tongue.Recklessly, dangerously.“The least you could do is acknowledge that.Just once.Perhaps over dinner.” 

Tarkin is completely, utterly blank.He could be a statue.A statue austere, ghoulish and grim.

Orson quickly shuts up, lest something even more idiotic manages to eject itself. _Fucking hell._ He quickly turns back to the window, thinking he ought to hurl himself through it and escape to the streets below.Excommunicate himself from Tarkin’s cathedral.And he also thinks, pressing an anxious finger to his mouth, that he should reeducate himself on the definition of seduction. He desperately wants to go back to limbo.Everything was good in limbo.Safe, stationary, sexual tension-filled limbo.If only he could undo the past ten seconds that have transpired.If only he could stop thinking _thoughts_ about Wilhuff, put an end to this futile obsession.If only—

Tarkin rises out of his chair, closes the distance between himself and Orson.At full height, the CEO towers a good five or six inches above the director.Tarkin leans next to the smaller man, spends a long time examining the boyish profile, the curve of pliant lips.He’s reluctant to admit it to himself but he’s always liked Krennic’s face.On the whole it lacks the bone structure of conventional beauty, but there are individual features that have their allure.Most notably a pair of large, expressive eyes that sometimes cut to the bone.Maybe that’s why Krennic chose to wear blue today—an indigo blazer that brings yet more attention to his eyes.

Orson folds under the scrutiny, slowly lifting his head to meet Wil’s inquisitive stare. 

“Renard d’or,” Wilhuff Tarkin commands.His stare is penetrating, like a creature undead.“On Rue Pierre Charron.Seven o’clock.Tonight.”

Orson nods, barely able to process the information. 

“In the meantime, _rework_ these.”Wilhuff quickly shoves a pile of sketches into Orson’s arms as if they are dirty, contaminated.“I want to see them again, as soon as possible.”

Orson meets Wil’s gaze, determination revitalized.“I won’t disappoint you.” 

As he lets himself out of the room, he allows himself a glance over his shoulder.There is a faint smile on his superior’s face, something teetering precariously between the lines of amusement and treachery.Orson finds the expression simultaneously ghastly and endearing.He snorts under his breath.Only Wilhuff. 

Krennic passes Motti and Pryce in the hall.After a few minutes of idle chat, Pryce asks if Krennic wants to join them for drinks after work.Orson declines, casually mentions his plans to meet Wilhuff for dinner later that evening. 

A knowing smirk from Motti.Orson snarls some offhand unpleasantry, pushes past his colleagues. 

Sequestered within his own office, the director of women’s apparel pacifies himself with work.His space is an explosion of paper, books, drawing utensils, fit mannequins, sewing apparatuses, bundled fabrics, sketches and prototypes strewn about haphazardly.Every inch of the walls covered with all manner of inspiration tears pulled from magazines, vintage sources, the internet.In the last moments of the dying afternoon sun, he hunches over his crowded desk and addresses the issue of the capes.If there’s one thing that Orson Krennic is sure of, it is that Wilhuff’s disdain for capes is complete unmitigated bullshit.

Compromise.There is always a compromise.As he reworks women’s outerwear, Orson decides to substitute the caped pieces for woolen double breasted ponchos with subtle military detailing.Classic and regal, probably closer to Wilhuff’s sensibilities.He is sure to keep the silhouettes dramatic but streamlined.But is this solution too passé?

Orson tosses his pencil aside.It’s all just bloody clothes, anyway.Maybe Tarkin is right—design something sensible and flattering, and call it a day.This simple doctrine has kept his empire in reliably good financial standing. Galen, of course, had disagreed and extricated himself from the company soon after meeting Lyra at club Eriadu.Galen and Lyra then joined forces and forged their own clothing line, which to date is steadily approaching bankruptcy.Which isn’t a surprise to Orson, being that he is the one who orchestrated the sneaky poaching of Galen’s vendors and suppliers, undercutting Galen’s business.No hard feelings on Krennic’s part.Business is business.With mild wistfulness Krennic recalls the night he and Galen crossed the Pont des Arts on a whim, securing their padlock amongst the thousands linked to the fences of the bridge.Several years later, he watched one morning as the city tore the fences away.And he was glad.Good fucking riddance.The padlock laden bridge was a disaster just waiting to happen, ready to buckle and fall under the weight of its own revoltingly unrepentant sentimentality.And the key still rests at the bottom of the Sienne, though Orson doesn’t care and he has no idea why Galen should even cross his mind anymore.

Later, he joins Tarkin at Renard d’or. 

Wil offers him a curt nod, resumes his languid perusal of the menu.Orson sits, removes his white woolen overcoat and gloves.The restaurant is quiet and intimate, punctuated by soft amber tones, small hardwood tables and minimal decor.And Wilhuff’s prominent cheekbones are highlighted beautifully under the overhead lamps.Orson is pleased with the ambiance until he opens the menu.Internally reels under the assault of the staggering prices.Of course.Of _fucking_ course.He narrows an eye at the wine selection, each averaging somewhere around four hundred euro.

“Is this alright?” Wilhuff tilts his head a fraction.“We may go somewhere else, if that suits you.” 

Orson smiles without actually smiling.Suppresses the urge to smack Tarkin’s massive forehead.“It’s _delightful_.” 

Wilhuff immediately proceeds to order the most expensive wine on the list.And then the second most expensive dish, the truffled penne.Brilliant.Orson considers bread and water.He can get by on those.They technically count as food.

“I would recommend the caviar,” Wil says, noting Orson’s hesitation.“Or perhaps the pan fried scallops.”Tarkin’s eyes have grown darker in the limited lighting, pupils invitingly large.The man is obscenely reminiscent of a predatory hawk.

Orson motions to their waiter.“I’ll have the cote de veau.”There are, he supposes, worse ways to spend seventy-five euro.He then rests a hand under his chin, stares openly at Tarkin across the table.“So.Isn’t there something you’d like to say to me?Regarding our…conversation earlier?”

“You know how I feel about capes, Orson.Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“No.The other thing.”

“Ah, you mean the moment you accused me of coasting along on the back of your achievements?Taking _credit_ , as it were?Is that the _thing_ you are referring to?” 

Orson is in another plane of existence, distracted by the way Wilhuff trills his words.He wonders where the man acquired this habit, this appalling purr.Tarkin should audition for theatrical roles.Preferably ones that are Shakespearian, with copious blood.Intrusive thoughts.Clarity!He _must_ maintain clarity.Suddenly in his peripheral vision Orson notices his phone light up with a text message.He looks down.Motti, in all caps: **SO HOWS YOUR DATE WITH WILHUFF GOING?** Three heart emojis and a lecherous smiley face leering off to the side.Orson sighs.Why does he tell Motti things?

“You are looking at this the wrong way,” Wilhuff continues, watching as Orson furiously taps at the phone and hastily sets it back down on the table.“I have never taken complete credit for your work, in fact, I…”Wil trails off, frowns.Reaches forward and lays a firm, manicured finger on Orson’s phone, slowly dragging it towards his side of the table and finally confiscating it.“Am I boring you?”

“Please,” Orson says, hoping desperately that the ambient lighting conceals his blush.“Continue.” 

“You work for me,” Wilhuff continues, folding his thin hands together.“As such, anything you do under my employ belongs to me.If you feel you’re missing out, then I implore you to start your own apparel brand.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Orson replies.“And with that attitude, you will start to hemorrhage talent.” _Galen.Remember him?_

The CEO lifts his brow a few millimeters, as if daring Orson to mention the name aloud.

“There isn’t anyone within my company who is not easily replaced,” Tarkin continues.“There are far too many who are clamoring for positions that are far too few.Don’t look at me that way.It is a pragmatic viewpoint, that much I will concede.But have I not treated you well?”

“You consistently fight my input.”Krennic steels himself, presses on.“Yet when we release a collection that does well, you’re very quick to pretend that it was all your doing.Naturally, this makes the design process somewhat _frustrating_.And you’re a bit of an asshole, Wil.Yes.You are.”He stops.Waits.Wonders if he’ll make it through the night with his limbs intact.

Tarkin is patient, calculating his next response.He breaks eye contact, searches for the correct words.He absently runs a finger along the stem of his wine glass.It isn’t as if Krennic is telling him anything he doesn’t already know.But he has taken a strange liking to the casual honesty in which the sentiment was conveyed.A liking to the defiant cut of those intensely blue eyes, weaponized orbs slicing Wilhuff to the core.

Krennic drums apprehensive fingers on the table.

Finally, Tarkin responds, speaking slowly, softly.“Well then.If I’m an asshole, that simply means I’m doing my job.It’s your job to provide the raw ideas, and it’s my job to filter them, finesse them into the grand scheme.I’d be doing a rather shit job if I let you and your…ideas run amok.You require a filter.A very dedicated filter.Honestly, I’m quite shocked we’re even having this conversation, Orson.I assumed such a basic concept was within your grasp.”

Tarkin then reaches into a pocket, pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper, tosses it across the table. 

Orson hesitantly unfolds it, looks at the neatly printed figure.

“Does that meet your satisfaction?” Wil asks.Have your _achievements_ been duly recognized?”

“This is…very generous,” Orson admits carefully.“But I didn’t come here to negotiate my salary.”

“Then what do you want from me?This had better not be about capes.We are _never_ going to agree about _anything_ in regards to capes.Strike the very thought from your mind.I don’t care how often they’re trending. _No_. _Capes_.”

Krennic scowls at the insufferable man across the table.Who said anything about capes? _Can we just fuck already?_ The intrusive thoughts surge to intolerable levels.Telepathy.Selective telepathy would be useful right around now.Would save them both the trouble.He takes a steadying breath.“I want you…to treat me with the same respect as Tagge.Motti.Pryce.And the rest.That’s all.Don’t fight me on everything.I’d like…to establish a better rapport between us.” 

Wilhuff looks at Orson for a very long time, idly stroking his wine glass between index finger and thumb.There is a shift.A fleeting glimmer of understanding.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” Wil leans forward, dangerously forward. 

“Now you know, then.”Orson fixates on the wine glass, and the fondling hand around it.He fidgets slightly.Food eventually arrives and the night presses on smoothly, conversation flowing naturally to other topics.Orson wonders if his salary raise is still in effect, even after admitting that his negotiation wasn’t his intention.But that doesn’t matter now.More importantly, he is courting Wilhuff Fucking Tarkin.And even _more_ importantly than that, they will eventually fuck. 

_Maybe even tonight_ , Orson has the audacity to hope. 

At some point he leaves the table to use the restroom.In the mirror over the sink he studies the lines on his face, the toll of sleepless nights and occasional substance abuse.He has laugh lines, though he hardly remembers laughing.When the director returns to the table, he is surprised to find Wil already handing the check holder back to their waiter. 

Before Orson can protest, Wilhuff raises a dismissive hand.“I may be a lot of things, but a cheapskate isn’t one of them.”

By the time they leave Renard d’or, the night has grown bitterly cold.Thankfully, Wilhuff has had the foresight to summon his chauffeur.Assailed by merciless gusts of wind, they board the black Mercedes Benz waiting just a few yards away from the restaurant.A frisson passes over Orson, in spite of the warmth of the car interior.Tarkin is very close.And he is taking one of Krennic’s hands and ever so gently peeling back the leather glove.Stroking Krennic’s vulnerable inner wrist.

Orson swallows, fumbles in vain for seductive words that never come.“I hate that you’re so good at this.”

“I know.”

In the shifting of shadows and light, Krennic reaches and finds a yielding mouth.He finally kisses the hollow underneath one of Wil’s treacherously sharp cheekbones.He finally wraps his arms around the lean but capable frame.Tilts his neck, savors the little bites pricking the pulsing skin above his carotid artery. 

With utmost relief, Krennic finally allows himself to relent under Tarkin’s tightening ironclad grip. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the epilogue < 3

In Le Marais, Tarkin’s flat.A cool breeze outside urges tree branches to gently lash against the window.Autumn leaves rustle and spiral towards their death as errant footsteps along a cobbled pathway approach and then fade into the sound of gently falling rain. 

Krennic wakes to a sprawl of arms and legs and sunlight filtering through wood venetian blinds.Tarkin breathes silently and deeply, the rise and fall of his chest nearly imperceptible.Krennic props himself on an elbow and considers the current state of affairs.One—he is in bed with someone he really shouldn’t be in bed with.Two—getting up would alleviate the issue, though it’s one of the last things he’d like to do.Three—he needs to piss, badly.

Orson untangles himself from long, grasping limbs.He rises and wanders through dim hallways until he finds a pristinely kept bathroom.Splashes cold water over his face, peers at himself for a moment before opening Tarkin’s medicine cabinet.Soaps and colognes and combs and brushes, all meticulously arranged and perfectly equidistant.No medications aside from a small bottle of aspirin and a box of bandages.He finds the scent that Tarkin was wearing last night, inhales briefly.Gently closes the cabinet.

Again faced with his reflection.He has to be honest with himself.It was a good idea.But it was also a bad idea.Krennic isn’t sure what he had expected after sleeping with Tarkin.He isn’t sure of anything at the moment, except for the immutable fact that he’d like for it to happen again.With alarming frequency. 

Against his better judgement, he slips back into bed with Wilhuff.

Wilhuff sleeps like a dead man.Krennic resists the urge to feel for a pulse, instead leans close and brushes lips against Wil’s temple.He thinks Wil is awfully good-looking for something potentially dead.He also thinks Wilhuff’s forehead could possibly accommodate a landing jet-liner.These two observations are opposing yet undeniably true. _Is_ he actually dead?Orson tentatively lays delicate kisses along Wil’s temple. 

Nothing.

Would a sentient Tarkin enact swift retribution for this unwarranted affection? 

Orson kisses him again.

Wilhuff is warm to the touch, almost burning, as if his body is attempting to consume itself from the inside out.Very much alive.Krennic remembers falling into bed with him, brushing a hand over his flat stomach, sensing an energetic tremor beneath his fingertips.Unexpected for someone Wilhuff’s age, though unsurprising.He’ll burn with fierce tenacity until every last cell, every last atomic particle in his body is utterly depleted of its energy and spent.Krennic can’t imagine him departing from life any other way.

Tarkin stirs awake with a soft inhalation. 

Krennic moves away, unprepared for this.The conversation.Conversation leads to acknowledging.Acknowledging leads to admitting.Admitting leads to the unmentionable.

“I need you to leave.”Wilhuff’s voice is sleepy but commanding nonetheless. 

Krennic smirks.There he is.There’s his Wilhuff.Bypassing the conversation completely.

“We’re an item now, Wil.This can’t be undone.”

“We’re not an _item_.We’re just two individuals who have come to an agreement in which we provide each other with mutual pleasure and satisfaction.”

“So it seems you’re not a morning person,” Krennic observes.“That’s alright.Neither am I.”

Wilhuff rolls his eyes, removes himself from Orson’s clutches.“Kindly make yourself scarce.I have to get ready.”

“For what?”Orson makes no effort to move.“It’s Saturday.”

“I have errands to run.”

“It’s seven in the morning.Nothing’s open.”

Wilhuff closes his eyes.He hadn’t expected this kind of resistance.He should have more carefully considered the ramifications of his affair with Orson.Last night, admittedly, was a moment of weakness.Apparently, establishing a better rapport with Orson almost immediately necessitated taking him home and fucking him senseless.

“I had the strangest dream last night,” Orson says, filling the silence.“We were complete psychopaths in charge of some kind of massive floating battle station in space.It was the size of an entire moon.”

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“And I wore a caped uniform, very dashing.Yours was dire and a bit reminiscent of the Third Reich.Not a good look for you, if I’m being honest.”

Tarkin raises a skeptical brow.

“I’ll show you.”Krennic grabs Tarkin’s tablet and stylus from the nightstand.He sketches for a few moments, pen gliding effortlessly over glass.Once satisfied, he passes the tablet to Wilhuff. 

Tarkin studies the drawings.“These are disgusting.”

Krennic sighs and begins to pick his clothes up from off the floor. 

With a few covert swipes of a finger, Tarkin saves Krennic’s drawing to his tablet hard drive and sets it aside on the nightstand.

Companionate silence as they share breakfast, toasted baguettes with raspberry jam and croissants from the bakery down the road.Orson peering down at his phone scrolling through emails and Wilhuff watching him over a cup of black coffee.Sometimes, Orson looks remarkably youthful.Something about the naive tilt of his large almond shaped eyes, encased within the frame of a fifty-something year old man. 

“You can stay,” Wilhuff finally relents.

Many months pass and Orson takes Wilhuff’s three words to heart.The old feud, effectively over, allows them both the opportunity to blossom in their respective roles within Wilhuff’s vast empire.Orson presents the seasonal women’s line, Wilhuff nitpicks, Orson takes it all away and comes back with something sublime. _You can stay_ gradually turns into _stay a little bit longer_ which eventually leads up to _can you stay with me_?But still he wants more.He hovers on the outskirts of the crowd at parties and fashion shows, alone as guests mingle and stroll past him with carefree laughter and bleached teeth and flawless ensembles, waiting for Wilhuff to make eye contact with him.At times the distance is insurmountable, vast incomprehensible stretches of yards that turn into miles. 

So this is what it feels like.Orson leans over a balcony with a glass of wine, watching the crawl of traffic below.The headlights of passing cars bend and warp through a wet haze as his throat begins to constrict.If he had known it was this hard, he might not have bothered.That’s what he tells himself, though he knows it’s a lie.It’s worth it.But people never talk about the difficult part, the scary part. At his age he should already know this, but it’s better late than never. 

“Orson?”Wilhuff emerges through a sliding glass door and joins him at the balcony.“You should be mingling.Everyone’s wondering where you are.”

Orson shrugs, keeping his gaze trained on the streets below. 

Wilhuff looks at the nape of Orson’s neck, the edge of his cheekbone and the downcast curve of a dark eyelash.He places a hand along Orson’s chin and urges him to lift his face.To his dismay he finds a pair of tearful blue eyes.

“Orson.Whatever is the matter?…”

“Nothing,” Orson replies softly, nearly broken by the tenderness of Wilhuff’s touch.“It’s just—I don’t know.All I want is to be alone with you.I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and it’s fucking terrifying.Wanting to spend every waking moment with you.”

“It would have been rather nice to know that before having me rent out this very expensive venue for your birthday.” Wilhuff offers Orson a subtle smile, pulling him into a close embrace.

“I couldn’t say it.It makes me look clingy and weird.I don’t _want_ to be clingy and weird.”

Wilhuff strokes the hair on the nape of Orson’s neck.“Hold out a little while longer and come home with me.I have something for you.”

The _something_ is in Wilhuff’s living room, placed on an antique fit mannequin.Dumbfounded for a moment, Orson approaches the mannequin and runs his large hand over a pristine white tunic accented with a black belt and a long flowing cape that extends to the floor. 

“God, Wil!This looks _exactly_ like it was in the dream.Down to every last stitch…” 

Wilhuff smirks and lifts his chin proudly.“I _did_ make some minor improvements to the design.But yes.By and large, this prototype is very faithful to the specifications of your original sketch.”

Orson laughs and wipes his eyes free of tears.“I can’t believe this.It’s perfect.It’s….flawless.”

Wilhuff smiles faintly as he stands aside watching Orson fawn over the ridiculous uniform.Though his eyes are several shades of blue lighter than Orson’s, they don’t lack depth.And though Wilhuff’s expression is measured and austere as usual, the joy on Orson’s face nearly renders him breathless with a quiet adoration that he will likely never verbally convey.This is followed by a sudden sadness as he wonders whether this is the peak, whether he would be able to consistently provide the sort of care and attention that Orson needs.The sadness of knowing that this moment can’t be extended forever—for it’s only a moment. 

“What can I say?”Wilhuff says, after composing himself.“You inspire me.”


End file.
